


On Your Plate

by stardust_made



Series: The I Know the Steps Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Lestrade's first meeting from Mycroft's POV. UST and all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Plate

  
The first time Mycroft meets DI Lestrade face to face is, as expected, because of Sherlock—but that is the only correctly predicted component of the equation.

Mycroft has always thought they should meet, from the moment that grainy snapshot from the CCTV footage showed him the outline of the first man with whom Sherlock had struck a consistent acquaintance in a decade. With time the images have multiplied and clarified, as the acquaintance has fortified into a partnership in crime solving. In five years DI Lestrade has been moved from one category to another, his surveillance status has been updated a number of times and his folder has grown as if some paper monster had chosen it for a favourite spot of reproduction.

DI Lestrade’s folder in Mycroft’s mental hard drive has grown exponentially, too. And just like the result of a visual cognitive test, at one point Lestrade has somehow managed to transform from a collection of potentially useful colourful dots of data into a wholesome joint image of himself—with a decisive synergistic effect. How and when exactly the merger between all those random dots occurred Mycroft is still unable tell, and that on its own delights him: He is usually able to tell almost everything, from its genesis through its contents to its possible end.

For a while, meeting Lestrade in person was a treasured fantasy, something Mycroft held enclosed in his palms like a ladybird found on the window sill at the top of a City building. In fact, Mycroft found some pleasure in patiently delaying the event until the moment was perfect. It was either not a good time for Lestrade or Mycroft had too much on his plate…So he waited. And he continued peeping into the dark cave of his hands in his most private moments, cherishing what he had. It was so hard to find something to look forward to these days.

But like with a fair number of things Mycroft’s inability to have things _his_ way can be traced right down to his younger brother.

Sherlock is working on yet another murder case with Lestrade and all is going just fine. Mycroft hasn’t even bothered to look up the case—he has full faith it will be solved successfully.

Then on the fourth day, around midnight, he receives a text message from good old John Watson. The text informs him that in the middle of the night Sherlock has gone off on his own into this park or another, and has finally gotten beaten up and robbed. 'Finally', not because Mycroft would ever wish as much as a hair fell from his brother’s extraordinary head, but because in view of his life-style, Sherlock’s consistent avoidance of any serious injury has started gnawing at Mycroft’s belief that guardian angels do not exist. Naturally, Mycroft himself has stepped into the role time and time again, with or without Sherlock’s knowledge. But although he hides it exceptionally well, Mycroft knows he _is_ just a man: Sherlock cannot be protected at all times.

So the feared has happened, yet Mycroft is grateful—it could have been a lot worse. John’s message tells him more than the man would ever know he’s put into it. An action plan is instantly formed, but before Mycroft has even made his first phone call, a second message arrives. It's from John again, but this time it only says “I’ve texted DI Lestrade.”

Mycroft holds his mobile and looks at the message, allowing himself the rare luxury of a few seconds of suspension. Just seeing the small electronic letters of the name gives him a thrill, and it is there and then, as he watches the screen mesmerised, that Mycroft realizes the moment has come. He dials the number he’s had stored under the letter L for the last three years and as he hears the ringing, Mycroft observes his hand smoothing down the impeccable line of his trouser leg no less than three times in a row.

Then Lestrade picks up.

***

Mycroft goes to collect him, generously letting Lestrade give his address and the directions to his house. The moment the back door of the car opens and Lestrade dives in—a heady mixture of scents and flesh and delicious voice—is probably etched in Mycroft’s memory for ever. He manages to introduce himself as usual only as a result of _years_ in unofficial diplomatic service for Her Majesty. He even succeeds in making some perfectly reasonable remarks about their destination and his ideas of starting points. Lestrade has clearly tried to chase away a night in the pub with a few splashes of cold water and is having his own effort to make, too, to look and sound professional. He is successful—he sounds exactly the way he always does on the records, but Mycroft has to bite his tongue at the need to reassure him. It wouldn’t do to start things off on the wrong foot; although Lestrade must be aware that Mycroft knows more about him than the other way round—the man is no fool—it is pointless to enlighten him about how much exactly Mycroft does know.

But it turns out he knows nothing, nothing of real importance. He doesn’t know that the smells of beer, freshly sprayed deodorant, a shirt that’s been worn all day and faint traces of morning aftershave mix just _so_ with Lestrade’s unique natural smell, to produce an utterly masculine scent and make Mycroft’s toes curl in his shoes. The way Lestrade’s right eye and the right corner of his mouth dance together when he starts a sentence with “But—“ are completely novel to Mycroft, despite the hours of close-ups he has seen over the years. Lestrade’s hair is so much more unruly than Mycroft has ever imagined it would be. His demeanour is so much more relaxed…His eyes so much keener and darker…

Most of all, Lestrade is more handsome than Mycroft has allowed for even in his wildest assumptions.

They have work to do, of course, and they do it well. Eight hours later Sherlock’s belongings are restored, Sherlock’s attackers are apprehended and placed in a state of perpetual horror, and Mycroft and Lestrade find themselves standing outside the local police station and looking at their feet—well, Mycroft is looking at the tip of his umbrella next to his feet.

Just as he thinks that eight hours is really more than he could have asked for, and that at least two years will likely pass before a genuine occasion for meeting Lestrade occurs again—because in the space of eight hours Mycroft has found, amongst other things, that _imposing_ himself on this man is out of the question—Lestrade scratches his head and says “I’m starving. I saw a café open up the road. Fancy some breakfast?”

Of all the pertinent answers Mycroft has at his disposal, none makes it to the finish line. He smiles sweetly and says “With pleasure.” and walks for the whole of six and a half minutes in the early morning sun, next to a gorgeous man who is perfectly happy with making small talk about the area. In turn Mycroft makes all the necessary comments and hums with the kind of precise timing that would make an expert in communication skills applaud. His mind is flat and beautiful, barely trembling like the surface of the liquid in a cup of tea, carried carefully by Mummy. Mycroft is content to occupy his brain with a single observation at a time: how the sun plays over Lestrade’s face and makes it more haggard (and how with ease that amounts to more precious); how Lestrade’s smile is such a peculiar mixture of self-confidence and self-unconsciousness that Mycroft wants to stretch his grabby hand and play with it, stroke it, take it apart, and put it back together right there in the middle of the street.

One look at the café from a distance informs Mycroft that he hasn’t been in a similar establishment for fun and not for work in the last twenty years. Inside, his nostrils pick up the smell of grease and his eyes travel over the handwritten, gaudy menus on the walls. He makes his way to a table and as he turns and sits across from Lestrade, he notices Lestrade’s eyes fixed on him.

It seems that something in Mycroft’s face amuses Lestrade. Very few people remain in the position to find Mycroft’s face amusing for long without his permission but here, there is such a disarming interest to accompany the gleam in the eyes that Mycroft forgets he’s usually not that lenient. He is also rather distracted by the way the material of that unworthy shirt tightly stretches over Lestrade arms, as he gestures to the waitress.

“Full English number four for me, no sausages. Ta,” Lestrade says to the sleepy girl when she's dragged her feet to their table.

“Would you like tea or coffee with that?”

“Coffee, please. Black, and if you could make it strong…”

“Sure,” the girl smiles and turns to Mycroft. “And for you?”

It takes a few seconds for Mycroft to realize he is waiting for the word “Sir” at the end of the question. Lestrade looks at him, his lips stretching further into a knowing smile, before he addresses the girl.

“Give us a few minutes.”

The girl toddles in the direction of the counter and Lestrade returns his eyes to Mycroft.

“As Sherlock would say it is _obvious_ this place is not your cup of tea. But you need to put some food in your stomach.”

Mycroft makes a graceful gesture with his wrist.

“I can assure you I'm fine. I’ll find something to eat later.”

“If we are going to Sherlock’s I doubt it there’s anything edible in their flat.” Lestrade is still slightly dragging his words in a laid-back fashion, but there’s a slight stubborn leash to his tone now.

Mycroft huffs a chuckle.

“There wouldn’t be, would there? Even with Doctor Watson on board, my brother’s abysmal housekeeping skills have prevailed.”

Lestrade grins just as the girl brings him his coffee; she looks at Mycroft expectantly. Before he has a chance to send her away, he hears Lestrade speak.

“Scrambled eggs on toast, please. But can you find us some real butter for the toast?” He ends his request with a full-toothed grin. The girl blinks at him, draws a tiny circle on the floor with the tip of her foot and nods. “Yeah, no problem.”

Mycroft can’t help but lift an eyebrow at his table companion. Lestrade opens his hands—strong, well-shaped—on the table, palms up. “You were going to send her away and you’ve got to eat.”

“I really don’t, as both my dietician and my brother will tell you. My brother’s version will be much more entertaining to hear, of course. I need to watch my weight.”

The last word has barely died on Mycroft’s lips when Lestrade says “No, you don’t.”

Mycroft manages to hide the excitement that whirls through him behind a trademark deadpan expression. It won’t do, it _really_ won’t do if he reads too much into simple statements. Insecurity burns a trail from his brain to his belly and settles on low simmer there. So this is how ordinary people feel. This inability to know for sure what a comment means, what a look signifies…Mycroft has experienced it before, albeit extremely rarely. It’s never ended well.

Lestrade shuffles in his seat and his voice has lost its natural confidence. “I mean you don’t look like—er…Both you and Sherlock don’t have any reason to watch your weight,” he finishes. It’s a lame finish and they both know it. Mycroft says nothing.

Lestrade shuffles again and stretches his feet under the table, where they brush against Mycroft’s. “Sorry,” he hastily says as he pulls them back and Mycroft’s face relaxes again. “That’s all right.”

They spend the following ten minutes talking about the events of the night. Lestrade has many questions about Mycroft’s deductions and even more about his contacts—but where he poses freely the former, he abstains from pressing with the latter. Mycroft adds that to the Things about Lestrade that will be thought about at leisure for days—and nights—to come.

The waitress brings their food and out of courtesy and some highly unexpected drive to do as he’s _told_ , Mycroft makes himself eat a few bites. It’s nothing to write home about, naturally, but it’s passable. Lestrade eats like a very hungry man; Mycroft watches him out of the corner of his eye and keeps quiet.

The silence remains until Lestrade pushes his sausage to the edge of his plate, sighing.

“She forgot I said no sausages.”

“Are you not fond of sausages, Inspector?”

“Greg, please.”

Just like that. Between two sips of his undoubtedly revolting coffee. Mycroft’s heart makes a quick visit to his heels, while its owner composedly nods his thanks for the permission to use the name.

Greg shrugs. “Oh, I love my sausages. I just don’t think this is a good, British sausage. I used to spend my summers with my grandparents in the Lake District and I remember the Northumberland sausages my grandfather used to bring home for my Nan to cook. This is some travesty.” He prods the offensive sausage with his fork.

“Oh yes. Quite.” Mycroft honestly agrees and embarks on a short speech on the export of British meat to Europe. Greg listens with some interest and although Mycroft knows he’s being casually arrogant with his statements and with his pretentious use of language, he still cannot make himself stop. How _can_ he stop? Greg is watching him, his eyes roaming unchecked over his face and every once in a while stopping to rest on his mouth. Eventually Mycroft manages to find a seemingly natural end of his speech and his hand slides into his inner pocked to get hold of a perfectly folded handkerchief. He presses it to his mouth—the brush of hard cotton over his lips spikes him with sensation. He continues to shield his face and swallows, then neatly places the handkerchief back in his pocket and smiles at Greg.

“I apologize. I am used to talking to an audience that has very little choice but to appreciate me.”

Something bold and undecipherable flashes in Greg’s eyes.

“You weren’t boring me,” he simply says, then adds. “You seem to know a lot on the subject of sausages and I’m quite partial to it.”

There is a twinkle in his eyes—and suddenly Mycroft laughs with his chest wonderfully free and shaking.

“Ye-e-e-s.” His laughter quickly quietens but his smile remains. He feels his eyes changing though; he must have got that look that makes even his most trusted PA touch her hair and gulp nervously.

“There seem to be advantages of knowing a lot about a great many subjects after all,” he says in a very soft, low voice.

Greg holds his eyes steadily, his own pupils coloured in that mixture of vague amusement and sharp curiosity that Mycroft has already found more addictive than those exquisite cupcakes of Monsieur Ardent’s; more bewitching than that sixteenth century French courtesan’s book of drawings.

They both look at their watches at the same time and Mycroft reprimands himself for the liberty he’s taken again in hoping Greg’s gesture has the same hidden reluctance as his own.

“We better call them,” Greg says.

Mycroft nods and presses his phone to his ear with a well-practiced elegant gesture—mobile phones are so _vulgar_ —as he watches Greg take his wallet out and pay for their breakfast. John Watson’s familiar earthy voice answers the call.

***

Of course he records every detail of how he and Greg part that morning. He’ll remember but he won’t like to. Not because anything happens—it is a thoroughly uneventful affair—no, Mycroft will avoid the memory on principle, for what it represents. After all, what he can’t avoid are the frightening new feelings of disorientation and emptiness _after_ Greg leaves. Mycroft finds himself grateful for Sherlock's unique brand of abrasiveness and for his company—his brother is one of the _very_ few people in the world who are capable to occupy Mycroft’s mental space thoroughly.

Mycroft manages to last for the whole of eight days after that. In eight days’ time Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade has an anonymous package delivered for him at work. The scanner and the subsequent unwrapping reveal the content: a pound of the best organic Northumberland sausages.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those familiar with my casefic "The Poster Girl" this could be read as a companion piece to it--you'll spot where it fits. But the story works perfectly fine as a stand-alone, too. It was written rather frantically in the short time between writing chapters of TPG and it isn't beta'd so apologies for the mistakes. I'll post the 11,000-word sequel in a day or two.


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